The Asphyxia of the Soul
by tennantstype40
Summary: David Lesgle Strider knows the world is ending around him; he just doesn't want to get involved. Instead, he contents himself with churning out music and being a beloved local radio personality. All of this would be perfectly fine if it wasn't for the fact that he's been abducted by political rebels.
1. Disc Wars

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: Lots of _Les Misérables_ references ahead. The title is even a _Les Mis_ reference. The whole quote is, "To die for lack of love is horrible. The asphyxia of the soul." Things written in ( _italics within parenthesis, like this_ ) are thoughts from the POV character. The dividing lines are all simply Caesar ciphers. This fic is also on AO3, but with more formatting.**

* * *

 **Sgdqd hr mnsghmf khjd z cqdzl sn bqdzsd sgd etstqd.**

Darkness. It's all you can see through the tiny holes in the loose burlap sack you're trapped within. Muffled thuds and metallic rattling. It's all you can hear above the loud clanging. You press against the rough fabric, gasping for air as whatever shitty vehicle you're travelling in lurches to a sudden halt. You can feel your own heartbeat. _Ba-boom. Ba-boom._ It pounds at your chest like an angry animal trying to escape from a cage.

Gathering your wits about you, you do your best to take stock of the situation. You can't feel any injuries. No bruises. No cuts. No broken bones. And you're not drugged; no, you're perfectly aware of _everything_.

No.

Put that aside for now.

Go over the basics.

... Your name is David Lesgle Strider...

"Fucking idiots! This is how you kill a man, not capture him. Someone get this clueless fuck out of this goddamned potato sack. NOW! Goddammit. Hey. Hey, bud? Blond _Playboy_ bastard?" An oddly familiar voice breaks through your thoughts. It settles in just long enough to conjure up an image of a grey-faced creature with tiny, nubby orange horns. Wild golden eyes, the irises rimmed with red. Pointed teeth set in a mouth whose lips are stretched into a comforting smile.

... No. Focus!

You're beloved radio personality DJ Strider, and you're a filmmaker. You might be young, but you'll take down any two-bit bastard who claims you can't hold your own against the seasoned professionals.

"Hey. Come on, you lump of shit. I didn't risk some of my best agents for you to sleep like a goddamned toddler after a full day at the free-for-all playhouse." The burlap is lifted and you can see light. _All you can see_ is light. It's as much a relief as it is an annoyance, and it takes a few minutes for your eyes to adjust. As this happens, you're helped to your feet and led to a rather cosy office chair. It's one of those faux leather ones, the sort you see in old movies. Some sticky patches hint at quick repairs, but it's still something far above the standard of living you're used to.

( _Shit, if they're going to abduct you, these fuckers are going to do it in style._ )

As this thought fades from your mind, your eyes finally begin to focus on your surroundings.

You're underground. You know that much. There are no windows, and the long escalators leading above-ground have been shut down. Metal plates cover the points at which they'd let people out to the ruined city above. The lacunar ceiling panels remain as they once were, but their opulence has faded. Next to a flickering, multicolored arch embellishment-on one of the few flat surfaces in sight-someone has spray-painted a seemingly nonsensical alphanumeric string. "ECRUT-1." This flat wall serves as the back of the space you're in. The rest is demarcated with propped-up sheets of corrugated steel.

There's a rusty desk.

And, most importantly ( _probably_ ), there are two people.

One is quite tall and feminine. Her hair is thick, yet short, and the tight curls have been maintained so that two soft peaks stick upwards on the left and right sides of her head. This frames her dark brown face nicely. When she speaks, she has the cool, collected voice you'd expect from someone of her appearance. "So _this_ is the fabled Dave Strider?" she says ( _asks?_ ), studying you with a pointed intensity.

The other is distinctly masculine, though many features are androgynous. "Don't get him riled up now, Kandice." Their voice is perfectly mid-pitched, refusing to lean in the direction of definitively male or indisputably female. Their face, with its smooth brown skin, is devoid of makeup, though, and there's a clearly maintained beard of light stubble on their chin. ( _You can't help but compare this to yourself, with your too-pale white skin and a face that wouldn't grow any hair on it if you slathered it with fertilizer._ ) Then again, this all pales in comparison to the faded grey wheelchair. ( _This is a politically incorrect thought for you to have, and you're well aware of it. Then again, you'd always thought the type of guy to hire people to forcibly abduct a beloved radio personality would be a bit more intimidating. That said, this bastard seems to have enough upper body bulk to strangle a fucking bear._ )

For a brief moment, your gaze meets theirs. And there's something in those silvery-grey eyes that makes you see the eyes from before. Vivid, honey yellow with a thin rim of red around a catlike pupil. It's not as if you have much time to ponder the vision, because the conversation steamrolls onwards.

"I'm going to be perfectly fucking honest with you, Strider, I don't want to do this right now. I've got one hell of a headache and trying to reason with some oblivious blunderfuck is _not_ high on my list of priorities. It's probably somewhere between 'drop dead' and 'eat my own shit,' just to give you a general idea." Here, they pause. They back away from you and park behind the desk. With all the delicacy of a baby shoving some random item into its gaping, toothless maw, they flip through the contents of one of the drawers. After a few seconds, a file with your name on the front is dropped onto the faded metal surface between you and... "Who the fuck are you, anyhow?"

"I didn't introduce myself?" There's a moment of silence, and you can see a vague hint of a fifty-fifty mix of surprise and embarassment. However, this fades quickly. In its stead is a look of disinterested anger, complete with dramatically furrowed brows. "My name's Karuna Vajpai. I'm the leader of the East Coast Condesce Resistance Movement and, most importantly, your one-way ticket out of an early grave."

You nod. ( _What the hell else are you supposed to do? Dance a fucking jig on the table, shit on it, and then bleat like a goddamned goat?_ ) "That sure is a lot coming from someone I just met," you mutter, unsure of where you stand with this Karuna character.

"It is," they agree, and an oddly confident smile spreads across their face. You're tempted to call it a smirk. "So, let's just get down to the fucking wire. Either you agree to help broadcast messages on behalf of the ECCRM, or I'll have a bullet in your fucking skull by noon. How does that sound?"

"You're just going to let him do this!?" you plead, turning your attentions to the only other person in the faux room. ( _You might exist in a world that will ultimately collapse into a deadly hellhole, but you're not quite ready to die yet. At the very least, you'd like to finish the script for your next film._ )

Kandice, however, disregards your commentary. She applies a layer of jade green lipstick to her full lips, studies the resultant shape on the tube, and shrugs. Then, without another word, she exits.

"Look, I think you're an absolute asshole. You're brash and annoying and every time I hear your voice on the radio, I want nothing more than to put a gun to my head and pull the fucking trigger. But you've got a following, and you've got an inconceivable amount of social power. We kind of need that." Karuna concludes this with a long sigh. Pushing off of the edge of the desk, they reorient themselves so that their weight rests on the backrest of the wheelchair rather than on the desk. "I don't really want to kill you, Strider. That'll be messy as hell and it'll be awful PR for us. All I'm looking to do is to stop a bunch of fucking shit-brained bastards from destroying the planet any more than they already have. If you join, which-as far as I'm fucking concerned-is your only real option, it's a win-win situation. Either we win, and the Condesce bastards fuck off to whatever hell they clawed their way out of; or, we lose and everyone fucking dies."

"You just spout pure rainbows and positivity, don't you?" you counter.

( _Up until now, you've tried your best to avoid politics. It never bothered you on a personal level, so you deemed it an ignorable thing. Then again, as time passed, shit started hitting the fan. The population is rapidly decreasing, legislation is verging on outright murder these days, and things have gone to absolute shit. Forget hell in a handbasket. This is a nuclear apocalypse in a wet diaper._ )

"I'm just saying what needs to be said," shrugs your impassive opponent. "If it helps any, I've pulled some strings and gotten some people you might know down here. I've been told you're friends with John Egbert, the resident goddamned whoopie cushion and chef. And you're Rose's sister, so there's that." Another shrug. Karuna grabs a coffee mug from the desk ( _you'd assumed it to be empty, but this is obviously wrong_ ) and downs a massive gulp before continuing, "You'll be allowed to bring all your undoubtedly ugly shit down here and we'll provide you with food and shelter."

As you had before, you simply nod. While your life above-ground isn't exactly easy, it's what you're used to. You're not the type of guy to let other people dictate your life, and you don't plan on bowing to any sort of pressures they'd put on you here. Then again, you're running out of water that _isn't_ irradiated, and there's only two more tins of sealed meatloaf at your shanty-turned-miniature-mansion. So, you agree. "Sure," you say, doing your best to sound as disinterested as possible, "Whatever. I'll do it."

"Fucking fantastic!" Karuna responds, wheeling towards a shelf of assorted and seemingly unorganized papers, "Now, get the fuck out of my office!"

Again, you nod. You're not going to protest this order. This guy's an absolute piece of shit ( _from what you can tell_ ), and you're happy to get as far away from him as possible.

For now, you figure you might as well investigate. You don't doubt Karuna's claims that John and Rose are here, but you'll have to see it before you'll believe it. ( _Not that it matters. You're a fish that's already bitten the hook. You're just being reeled in._ )

 **Hs hr mnsghmf sn chd. Hs hr eqhfgsetk mns sn khud.**

It doesn't take long to find John. The slightly tanned skin, the wild black hair, and those dorky oblong glasses. He's someone you just can't miss in a crowd, and that's major boon for you. After what you just went through, you're not exactly up for a wild goose hunt.

"I'm guessing it went well with Grand Knight Vajpai," is his greeting to you, and you wouldn't expect anything else. It's all the vaguely tactless charm you've come to expect from John. "You're not dead is what I'm trying to say."

"I figured," you mutter, burying your hands in your pockets. You can only assume that this is where John's been for the past five years. ( _He disappeared from your life around the time the Condesce finally managed to replace all of America's government officials with their own agents. He'd said he was joining the cause, and you'd encouraged him. That's not to say you weren't disappointed. And you considered following him, but you ultimately decided against it. Perhaps, if you had, you wouldn't be in this situation_.) "Vajpai's a real jackass. Just so we're on the same page."

"He's just in a bad mood today," John shrugs, offering you one of his trademark smiles-wide, toothy, and goofy as hell. ( _He's always been the type to "see the best in people." Goddamned good guy._ ) "Anyways, you probably met Rose's girlfriend, too. Kandice?"

"Pain in my ass," you counter.

"Nah, she was just playing along with Karuna. They're both really nice people." John does his best to reassure you of the moral character of your new superiors, and this has an odd dual-effect. On one hand, it's nice to have that familiar friendly guidance. On the other hand, no one should need this much talking up to sound like they're not a complete asshole. "You'll have to meet Therese, too, but we'll get to her later." ( _That's definitely NOT comforting. At all._ )

"So, what about Rose? Is she still churning out that homoerotic wizard drama?" you inquire, ribbing your childhood friend in the side.

He responds with a literal snort of laughter. "What else would she be writing? I mean, besides our monthly ECCRM pamphlets." When he rolls his eyes, you can't help but recognize how clear and blue they are. ( _They're like the fucking sky. They're just that goddamned clichéd, and you can't help it. They're fucking gorgeous, and your goat is frequently gotten by the fact that he is just not interested in you. Sure, you're fine with seeing your best bro happy with anyone, but that's not to say you're without disappointment whenever you know those stupidly blue eyes won't ever look at you the way you've often looked at him._ ) "By the way, I saved you a bunk that's right below mine. It'll be like our sleepovers in high school."

"I'm guessing that includes the part where you can't hold your liquor worth shit?" you reply glibly.

"I'll be sure to puke on you, just for the nostalgia." John flashes you another of his grins.

And, now, the two of you round a corner in the sea of plain concrete and flickering flourescent lighting.

Now, you find yourself face-to-face with someone who looks remarkably like you-the same pale skin, blonde hair, and freckles spattered over the bridge of her nose. Her arms are folded across her chest, and she looks about as happy to see you as you'd expect. "Nice to see that you're still alive, brother."

"Nice to reunite like some sort trite cartoon siblings, sis," you rebut.

She rolls her eyes, though you catch the vague hint of a smile playing at the edges of her lips. Like you, she'd drop dead before she let you know her real motives. Rose is an enigma, and you strive to match her mystery with your own aloof aura.

( _In line with that, you'd never admit that you're glad to see your sister, but you are. You're damned glad to see your sister, and you'd honestly thought she was dead for a while. The last you'd heard, she was servig with the California-er, rather, the West Coast-division of the resistance when their base was bombed to smithereens. Seeing her alive and well here is a huge fucking relief, because you'd never live it down with your conscience if something actually ended up happening to Rose._ )


	2. Pangur Bán (Aisling's Song)

**Wkhuh lv d zdb ri dyrlglqj d shuvrq zklfk uhvhpeohv d vhdufk.**

"Wake up." A voice draws you from a night of fitful sleep. "Wake up," it commands again, this time with more force than before. "All the new ones are the fucking same. How the hell did my dad put up with this shit without pissing all over everyone in this goddamned underground shit-pen?" A hand grabs you by the shoulder, but the grip isn't exactly forceful. There's a careful tenderness to it; if you really, _really_ wanted to, you could easily pull free. It's intentional. You can tell that much. For some reason, it reminds you of something. You've never really had much time around people-especially the sort of people who'd be touching you in such a respectful way-but you're too tired to give a damn.

"Dave?" This grabs your attention more than anything else. Very rarely do people ever call you by your first name. ( _It's always "Mr. Strider" or "Sir" or "Strider"._ )

You open your eyes, and find the man from earlier staring down at you. For some reason, you realize that their nose is crooked. It's not enough to be obvious, but it's just enough to break the symmetry of their face. Not that this is any sort of problem for you, and it's not _at all_ in line with your interests. ( _You're not interested in this douchecanoe. Not one fucking bit._ ) As this line of thought comes to a close, it dawns upon you that they're looking for a verbal response. "Shit!" you exclaim, sitting up suddenly.

Your forehead slams into theirs.

Both of you end up reeling, but they speak before you can. "Jesus fucking Christ," they hiss, rubbing just above their right brow, "Are you trying to kill me? You haven't even known me for a day. I don't think I'm _that_ bad."

The commentary draws a small chuckle from you, but you do your best to suppress it. It seems to work, as they don't say anything about it.

Instead, they continue, "Whatever. That was my fucking fault for leaning on so close. Strike one for Karuna. I'm on a fucking roll. Throw me a ball and I'll hit the world's most unfortunate home run." ( _Damn. This bastard can talk._ ) "I've arranged for your breakfast to be delivered, but I'm pretty sure it's cooled down by now. Everyone seems to go fucking bananas for pancakes, so I got John to whip some of those up."

"Thank you?" you respond, uncertain of whether or not they're fishing for some sort of compliment.

A lack of response on their part doesn't clarify any of your uncertainty, either. Thus, you end up eating breakfast in awkward silence, being stared at by the seemingly hawk-eyed leader of a political revolution. The painful atmosphere continues even after you've finished. He hands you a plain grey jumpsuit with the East Coast Condesce Resistance Movement logo-a solid red eagle clutching a golden sickle in its mouth-hand-embroidered on the right brest. "I'm not looking," he announces, turning his back to you as he continues, "You won't have much privacy around here, so get fucking used to people snooping around in your business."

You nod.

You change clothes as quickly as possible, and store your old clothes in a haphazard stack under your pillow. "Is this normal?" you ask. Truthfully, you're not interested in the answer; you just want to break the silence. "Do you usually give tours to the new kids?"

"It's standard Resistance Movement procedure. Not my fucking choice," they growl. The bare palm of one hand presses against one wheel of their chair as the other hand rotates its counterpart. The turn is swift, precise, and calculated. From this, you get the feeling that they're used to it.

"You're not the smoothest person down here," you comment, knowing at this point that you're grasping at soggy straws for something to talk about. "I'd think the leader of a group of take-no-shit rebels would be more charismatic."

"Yeah, well, we can't all get what we fucking want," they counter. After this, there's a moment of silence. A low hum. A muffled boom shakes the ground beneath your feet, and dust falls from the cement ceiling above you. ( _Clearly, this isn't the safest goddamned route you could have taken._ ) Unfazed by the development, Karuna gestures for you to follow them. "Drill drones. Drop one of those fuckers from a plane, let it burrow, and hope it hits us. The Condesce have the strategic skills of a sugar-crazed toddler."

You nod. ( _Being sealed in a run-down penthouse by your older brother for most of your formative years isn't exactly the best way to develop world-class social skills. Then again, you can't help but think that Karuna has about the same amount of people-schmoozing skills as you do. And that's a nice way of saying you're both fucking clueless._ ) Around you, there's little to look at. Beyond occasional, but often vibrant and colorful, chalk murals, it's just a long stretch of unadorned concrete, cement, and steel. It's also dark. After perhaps five minutes of bumbling about like a drunken honeybee, you're forced to admit defeat and remove your shades. You clip them to the collar of your jumpsuit for safekeeping.

( _You already put up with enough name-calling in school for your strange eye color; the fact that a scuffle with your Bro claimed one of them didn't help douse the flames of middle school jackassery. To combat this, you started wearing shades. It became your thing._ )

"Door to your left leads to the dining area, door the the right leads to the recreational room." The sudden intrusion on your thoughts startles you, but you manage to keep outward signs of this to a minimum. ( _You're fucking certain they didn't notice your reaction at all._ ) "Go straight, and you get to my little slice of this dark, flickering hell."

"You sure do talk shit about this place a lot. If you hate it so fucking much, you could always find a new part of the subway." You shrug. By now, your hands are buried in the pockets of your jumpsuit. Inside the right pocket, you found a loose thread, and you've been absentmindedly toying with it for the past umpteen minutes. "It's fucking huge."

"The other parts are either too hazardous or blocked by wrecked train cars. If you want to be the fucking doofus to pioneer a salvaging operation that our team couldn't handle when we were twice the size we are now, then be my fucking guest." Again, there's a pause. The conversation lulls, sliding back into the valley of painful awkwardness. This time, though, Karuna quickly pushes the conversation back into the realm of tolerability. "Whatever. Just follow me."

You're led onwards, through a shoddy plywood door, and into a small room. There's just enough room for you and Karuna to move, but not enough for it to be done in any way that could be considered comfortable. A hospital-style bed, complete with all the adjusting bells and whistles, is against one wall. Opposite this is a desk with some basic broadcasting equipment set on top. A microphone, some dials and knobs, and a stack of papers.

"We couldn't find much of a space for you to work with, so you've gotten to honor being shoehorned into my room. I guess it's for the best, though, since I'll get to monitor you. For all I know, you fucking love the Condesce." Here, Karuna rolls their eyes. They approach the desk, thumb through some of the papers, and pull out a small stack of them. After setting these aside, they back away. "Your first broadcast is today. Starting now."

 **Hyhub elug wkdw iolhv kdv wkh wkuhdg ri wkh lqilqlwh lq lwv fodz.**

Your first broadcast was simple. You read some shit, and vouched for disbanding the Condesce Cleansing Coalition movement as beloved radio personality, DJ Stride. It wasn't awful, but it wasn't exactly the most riveting thing you've had to say on air. Then again, you figure you'll be allowed to wing it, as you often do, eventually.

For now, your focus is on getting out of this room. You've had enough time with the grumpiest fucker in this subterranean bunker.

Fate, however, has different plans.

In the time it took for you to say what you needed to, Kandice entered. This effectively crowds you into your corner. If you move, you'll just knock her into Karuna, and you have a feeling that this isn't something you should do. ( _You saw a needle come out, at least, and it seems to logically follow that whatever is happening right now is going to be a delicate fucking operation._ ) Neither party really acknowledges your presence. This doesn't bother you; actually, it fascinates you. Right now, you're privy to what you're guessing is an interaction no one else gets to see. If you don't get any dirt from this, you'll at least have a better understanding of your new boss.

You don't want to be too obvious, though. Turning around will only alert them to the fact that you're snooping, so you've got to keep a low profile. Instead, you remove your shades and use the reflection to guage what's happening. It's not very useful, but you can see enough to tell that there's some sort of minor medical procedure going on behind you. To keep your front from turning into a sham, you set your shades on the bridge of your nose and take a great amount of fake interest in the spots of rust on the desk.

"One milliliter," Kandice says, articulating the word with a pointed sort of carefulness. "Four to go."

"I feel fine," protests Karuna, shifting slightly in their chair, "I don't see the fucking point in draining this shit out every other goddamned month." Their voice is hesitant-or, perhaps, it's better described as uncertain. You've only known them for a short time, but you get the impression that this sort of tone isn't very common coming from them. ( _You're used to a more aggressive, assertive, in-your-face, will-fuck-you-up-without-second-thoughts attitude from this guy, not this somewhat docile ambivalence._ )

Kandice, though, you know little about. So, her responses intrigue you. They tell you more about the people you're working with, and that's something that you'll need to know in the blighted reality you live in. "We both know it doesn't hurt, Una. Just shut up and relax."

"It's _annoying_ ," is the response, said in a tone similar to that of a whining child. "I have five-fucking-thousand better things I could be doing, and one of those is shoving my hand up my own goddamned ass to look for the black hole that is my soul. Can we just get this fucking over with?"

"Two milliliters," Kandice answers cooly. ( _You hate to do it, but Rose has rubbed off on you. You're not as good as psychoanalysis as she is, but you'll do in a pinch. From what you can tell, this Kandice character is a sort of vengeful mother hen. She cares, but she cares in her own unique way._ ) Some more time passes before she speaks up again. "Three milliliters."

"Hmph." Karuna lets forth an indignant huff.

Kandice clicks her tongue. "If you whine any more, I just might consider leaving you here like this for a while."

"I'll shut up now." Karuna's response is swift and decisive.

Kandice, meanwhile, simply snickers. "We're almost done." A few seconds after saying this, there's a soft symphony of movement. Fabric brushes against fabric. Items rattle against cardboard boxes. A single, sharp click-presumably something made of hard plastic being pressed against another, similar material-acts as the conclusion. "You did wonderfully." As Kandice brushes past you, you're hit with the aroma of pressed flowers and freshly mown grass. ( _These are odd scents, and you haven't smelled them in the ten years since the bombs dropped across the country, but you recognize them. You know them._

 _They bring to mind a memory-a vision of another of those grey-faced creatures. She stands before a hulking, undefined beast, a bloody chainsaw in hand. The world around her seems to be made of nothing, yet the weight around you feels equal to that of the universe._ )

"You did lovely, too, Dave." She says this in passing-it's a comment said after the fact, and thrown in as an aside. And, as she leaves, you eagerly follow.

Karuna doesn't comment.

( _Perhaps he forgot you were there. Or, if you're being honest with yourself, he probably just didn't give a fuck._ )


	3. Monkey's Story

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Title is from the _Kubo and the Two Strings_ soundtrack, composed by Dario Marianelli.**

* * *

 **Aolyl hyl aopunz zayvunly aohu aol zayvunlza thu...**

On the third day, you wake to find a sizable crate at the foot of the bunk bed you share with John. Your name is scrawled across the surface in bright green, runny paint, and you're guessing this is Karuna and the gang coming through on their promise to let you keep your shit from above-ground. Then again, your brother's antics during your childhood have taught you to be wary of unexpected gifts.

You approach the wooden box with the worst case scenario in mind. Your brother _could_ have come back from the dead just to fight you again. Of course, you know this is ridiculous; you just live by the philosophy of "it's better to have expected a sword in the gut and avoided it than to have expected a teddy bear and gotten a sword to the gut."

John, of course, disagrees. He's also known you long enough to pick up on your wariness. "It's just the shit they grabbed from wherever you were living before you landed here," he reassures you. Turning to look at him, you find that he's perched on the top bunk, scribbling something down in a beaten-up notebook. "What were you doing before I finally convinced Una to drag you down here, anyhow?"

"Does everyone call that bastard 'Una'?" you ask, taking the opportunity to postpone whatever nature of surprise awaits you inside that crate.

John responds with an enigmatic shrug. "They're really a nice guy, just a little prickly. Like a cactus. The juice can be pretty cool, but it's the outside that gets you." Here, he pauses. He taps the eraser end of his pencil to his chin, seems to ponder his own comparison, and concludes with a quiet chuckle. "I'd wait before you do it, though. Just keep to 'Vajpai' or 'Karuna' for now. Shoot for the first one more than the second. And you never answered my question."

"Whatever," you huff. After recomposing yourself, you turn back to the crate. A crooked crowbar has been duck taped to the front. Logically, you peel this off and use it to pry off the front. Inside, as John said, you find only your old possessions from above-ground. Thus, you allow yourself to relax. Your mind drifts back to the conversation, and you remember that John is still waiting for an answer to his question. Clearing your throat does nothing to ease your embarrassment, but it gives you a moment to think. You piece together a rough semblance of what you want to say before letting it spill out like water gushing from a geyser. "I wandered around for a year or two, then landed the radio gig. I used the cash they gave me to buy a nice, untouched mobile home in what used to be Alexandria."

Perhaps intrigued by your story ( _but most likely drawn by the ever-present glow of fucking awesome exuded by your collection of things_ ), John descends from the top bunk. He simply jumps, disregarding the ladder as a mere accessory. "Sounds cooler than working as a chef for however-many-years running. But I'm the _best_ chef."

"Aren't you the only chef?" you ask as you pluck a faded snow globe from the top of the crate's pile. The water inside of it drained away at some point, but the music box still plays some off-key rendition of a song you don't know, and the little model ship inside remains as aesthetically pleasing as ever.

"Dad used to work with me." John's response is quiet, his tone oddly somber. You know what's coming, but it still hits you like a power kick to the gut. "We used to live a little further down, in our own bunk. A drill drone made it down, close enough to actually hit us, and the room caved in."

"Oh," is all you can say. ( _You've never been good at comforting people. Hell, you can't even comfort yourself half of the time. Now is one of those times. The guilt over not being here when John probably needed you is going to eat at you for at least a month._ )

"Yeah." A long sigh punctuates the statement. However, after a few seconds, John rebounds. He's back to his usual, chipper self. "That was four years ago, though. I'm lucky I got out without getting fucked up, seeing as we lost half our membership in one night. That's why you're here," at this point, he throws his arm around you, eliciting a poorly stifled yelp of surprise ( _which, mercifully, he chooses to not mention_ ). "We've got to build our ranks back up if we're ever going to get rid of the Condesce."

You don't respond to this.

( _Somehow, you feel as if you've been ignoring the crumbling world around you for too long. Maybe you should have followed John when he offered to bring you along five years ago. Could things have gone differently for everyone if you had?_

 _Mr. Egbert was always such a nice guy. He'd give John food to smuggle into your place whenever he visited, and he wound up being the father you never had. Maybe, if you'd been there five years ago, he wouldn't be dead._ )

"You don't actually think you'll be able to keep all this shit, right?" John laughs. It's a lovely, familiar sound, which eases you back into reality.

While you initially intend on disagreeing, a quick glance at the space you have and the formidable pile of things before you forces you to agree. "Yeah. I know. We should get to work figuring out what goes, I guess."

"We keep unwanted shit in the junk room, right near the... Um... It's next to the cave-in." For a brief moment, John's usual pep fades. But, as usual, it returns quickly and with a vengeance. "I'll show you where when we're done. Kandice and Therese use the old shit to make new stuff."

"Who the fuck is Therese?"

John grins. It's one of those devious smiles, the sort people have when they know something you don't. And that "something" is something big. "She lives in the junk room. If you've seen the chalk murals, those are hers. You'll meet her soon enough."

"I'm not sure I want to," you respond honestly.

John counters with a snicker. "You'll have to eventually."

 **Uvaopun vwwylzzlz aol olhya sprl zfttlayf.**

One thing is immediately apparent about the junk room. It _earned_ its name. This is no mere room with some odd items, this is a veritable junkyard. You can't even figure out what half of the broken, discarded, and all-around shitty items are supposed to be. Most of them just blend in with the other oddball plastic-and-metal-heaps. Truly, the only thing that stands out is an odd steel ball, from which stick evenly spaced orange spikes, which hangs by a thick chain from the ceiling. There's also a mattress, which rests atop a base made of old wooden pallets, and a beaten-up red suede armchair.

Perched on this armchair is a rather curvy woman with light brown skin. Her eyes are hidden behind a pair of pointy red shades, and she seems preoccupied with the task of trying to fuse a pistol to the upper end of a white cane. As you and John near her, she stops. She sets aside her odd crafting work in order to turn towards the two of you. A wild grin spreads across her face, and it reveals a set of oddly pointed teeth.

"Egbert's back in the house," she exclaims, throwing a white cane in your general direction. A closer look reveals that there are at least twelve of these, all of them clustered around the base of the armchair like cigarette butts around a stationary chain-smoker. "And you brought a new friend."

She stands, grabs another of the canes, and approaches you. For some reason, it reminds you of someone. It reminds you of a place and a time and a life that's on the tip of your tongue, but just out of reach. ( _A white cane topped with an intricately carved dragon's head, its eye made of shining red. The end falls away to reveal a deadly point, from which drips a thick, viscous teal substance._ ) Now, she stands eye-to-eye with you, though you can't see past the shades. She's about your height, and this, for some reason, intimidates you. "I was wondering when Dave would show up."

"So, you heard about him coming?" John asks.

The woman shrugs. At this point, you have a hunch that this is the fabled Therese. "No. I'd know that smell anywhere. A whole one-fucking-thousand years, and you _still_ smell like alcohol and burnt rubber." She punctuates this with a snicker of laughter. "No way I'd forget the cool kid of your gangly bunch of humans."

You nod slowly.

"Just go with it," John whispers, "She's a bit odd." Clearing his throat, he allows his voice to return to a normal volume. "Dave, meet Therese. And I guess Therese has already met you."

The woman grins once more and offers you her hand. "Call me Terezi. Or TZ. John's an idiot, so I make an exception for him." She pauses, and you prepare to speak. Before you can, though, she continues. She gestures towards the orb hanging from the ceiling, referring to it with a sweet, nostalgic tone. "You like the Matriorb? I hung it with old chandelier stuff. I think it makes a lovely addition."

"Mhm." Again, you nod slowly.

Therese-or, rather, Terezi ( _what an odd, yet oddly familiar name_ )-leans in a bit closer. When she speaks, you can smell her breath, which is essentially a thin layer of mint masking the overwhelming odor of canned tuna. "I know you know me, pretty boy," she hisses. "You want to fix this? Well, then, you're going to have to remember some heavy shit. I'll start you out nice and easy." Now, she leans in closer. When she speaks, it's soft enough for only you to hear what she says. "Knight of Time." With this, she shoves you back.

As you stumble a few steps away from her, your mind begins reeling.

( _You see yourself in a hooded red outfit. A cape trails behind you, and two loaded turntables are near you-one on either side. You are unsure of where you are. Is it space? Is it hell? Whatever it is, it's cold. It's cold and lonely, and the only thing you can clearly see is a massive, burning green sun._ )

A snap.

It's right in front of you.

You remember where you are. Or, rather, you recognize it.

You've been pulled from the room, and you now stand in the main subway tunnel with John. His eyes are wide with concern, and they're focused on you. "None of us can stand being in that room for very long. Gives you a funny feeling, doesn't it?"

"'Funny' is a gentle was to describe whatever the fuck that was," you sputter.

He laughs. Again, the sound makes your heard flutter. ( _If laughter truly was medicine, you're sure his could bring you back from the dead._ ) "I'm trying to be a nice person, Dave. Anyhow, what'd she tell you?"

"Called me the Knight of Time," you say, sounding as skeptical as possible. Still, just saying it feels so right. It feels as if you should have this title right now. As if you should have had it for a long, long time. "What, does she usually drop nonsense phrases on people like that?"

"Yeah. Everyone's gotten some sort of funky title from her. I'm the Heir of Breath, apparently." A disinterested shrug is enough to tell you that John isn't as attached to his title as you are to yours. Then again, you're certain that you're the only person to see visions of horned aliens and galactic wars _and_ genuinely feel like you've been there and known these aliens. "Una's the Knight of Blood. Funny. You and Una have matching roles."

You roll your eyes (or, at least, your one remaining eye) and offer a bitter snort of laughter in response. "I have nothing in common with that fucker," you proclaim.

John remains silent. Nonetheless, that stupid I-know-something-you-don't-know smirk flashes across his face, and you're mildly tempted to punch him for it. ( _You don't, of course, because you are a trademarked Good Friend._ )

 **Wklv kxpeoh vrxo oryhg, dqg wkdw zdv doo.**

Soon after escaping the junk room, -or whatever sort of unbearable liminal space it is and was-you're dragged off again. ( _Hopefully, this is only the first half of your stay. You can't take much more of this running back and forth on a near-constant basis._ ) This time, you're met by none other than your _beloved_ sister, who just happens to sleep in the bunk two down (to the left) of yours.

She begins her introduction with a dramatic flare you'd be disappointed to _not_ see coming from her. She throws open the door to the sleeping quarters ( _apparently called the ECReUT-1_ ), and announces her presence, saying, "Dave Strider, you've been summoned." Then, as if this had never happened, she returns to her usual calm, collected self. ( _She might be the coolest cool when it comes to her demeanor, but she's a playful person._ ) She approaches you, as you lounge on your bed, and leans against the bottom-right bedpost. Her arms are folded, and her lips form a familiar yet forever enigmatic smile. "Una wants you down at the commons. I'll show you the way, if you want; I wouldn't want you getting lost."

An annoyed huff serves as your response. Nonetheless, you follow your sister down the dimly lit main tunnel and into the primary station. ( _You've seen older pictures of it. Once, it was amazing. Opulent and distinguished. Now, though, it's little more than a faded husk of a memory._ ) You follow her to a set of cubicles made of propped-up corrugated steel, and into the very space you were dumped in when you first arrived.

Beyond Rose, the crowd is the same as before. Karuna idles behind the desk, engrossed in some sort of puzzle ( _it looks like sudoku_ ). Kandice, from her spot in the corner, stares at Rose like a love-struck teenager ( _sickening_ ).

The first to speak-and, from what you can tell, the only one willing to-is Karuna. They clear their throat, rap their knuckles against the metal desk, and begin. The excitement in their voice is on par with that of a rock. ( _That's to say it doesn't fucking exist. This guy couldn't be less interested in this if you slathered it in wet paint and told them to watch it dry._ ) "I understand that we got off to a rocky start..."

"I'd qualify it more along the lines of 'unequivocally terrible', with all due respect," interjects Kandice. A small smirk plays at the edges of her lips as she says this; she knows what she's doing.

And, judging from the swift, soft snicker from Rose, it's some sort of odd game the two play. ( _You're not sure dancing around the head of a political rebellion, essentially prodding him with sticks to annoy him, is a very good idea, though. Not that you're worried. Rose and Kandice are perfectly capable of handling themselves._ ) You're amazed, though, at the fact that she can keep a completely straight face. ( _It's the only thing straight about her._ )

After clearing their throat for a second time, Karuna disregards the jab. They bury their fingers in their thick, wild hair and heave a disgruntled sigh. "I know we both want this conversation to die a swift and painless death, so I'll keep my shit-spewing to the most innocuous minimum possible. Did all of your stuff arrive today? Everything you needed or wanted?"

"Yeah," you answer. You're in total agreement with them; this conversation doesn't need to be prolonged.

"Great." They push off of the desk to back up and wheel around it, parking in front of you. Their elbows rest on their knees, and the way they've pressed the tips of their fingers together gives you the vibe of a sort of creepy middle-aged man with big plans, little charisma, and a concerning penchant for shoving children into giant robots. However, this vibe is mercifully dispelled as he leans back and rubs the back of his neck. His gaze flits about, never meeting yours. "You're settling in?"

"Yeah."

"Awesome." There's a long, strained pause. Eventually, they nod. "We're done, then. Get the fuck out of here, and I'll see you early tomorrow for your second broadcast."

"Got it," you respond. Then, as fast as you physically can, you comply with their order and get the fuck out of there.


	4. Scollay's Reel

**Scollay's Reel**

 **Qeb elpmfqxi txp x ilt xka kxoolt yrfiafkd lc x pfkdib pqlov, tfqe x pjxii dxoabk.**

The script in front of you is horrible. Awful. Worthless. You'd use it to fuel a fire to heat the space around your cold, damp bed at night before you'd use it to try and rally _anyone_ to _any_ cause. It wouldn't draw a severely dehydrated horse to water, and it sure as hell isn't going to win any hearts.

And it seems that Karuna has picked up on your distaste for the material. "What?" they huff, rolling in their palm some sort of small clay ball. They pause, study the orb, then continue to shape it. "You don't like what you have to read? To _political_ for you, DJ Stride?"

You roll your eyes and disregard their jab. Instead, you tiptoe around that and continue onwards, slamming into the main topic full-force. "It's fucking shit," you respond honestly. Your gaze meets theirs, though this connection is quickly broken. ( _Whether you did this or they did is irrelevant._ ) "I wouldn't wipe my ass with this."

To your surprise, their response is a small, understanding nod. They offset this with their commentary. "What do you fucking want from me!? I'm good at making a bunch of harebrained fuck-alls do things as a semi-coherent group. My specialty isn't radio broadcasting." They move to face away from you, only to drop the odd clay sphere.

Both of you watch-in pained, awkward silence-as it rolls across the floor. Eventually, it bumps against the wall behind you and stops.

Neither of you move to pick it up.

"Shit," Karuna mutters.

You make a poor attempt at diffusing the situation with humor. "Where the fuck did you get clay, anyhow? Is there some sort of art supply shop down here?"

They, understandably, roll their eyes. "Do you think before you talk, or do you just open your mouth and let shit fly out like a fuckton of migrating geese?"

"That second one," you admit.

"I can fucking tell. We have a little bag of it down in the junk room." The sigh, move forwards, and roughly shove you out of the way. However, as they near the fallen sphere, they pause. "Yeah. That's not happening."

"What's it supposed to be, anyhow? Did the rec room lose a foosball?" You try to busy yourself with making your own revisions to the script, only to find yourself distracted by the banal conversation at hand.

Karuna, as it stands, is having none of this. They cut straight to the point. "No, but you're down an eye, and the one you have now annoys the hell out of me."

"Oh." You pause. Up until now, you'd been under the impression that your shades hid your eyes (or singular eye, perhaps) completely. "You noticed?"

"You took your fugly shades off on the tunnel a few days ago. Now, are you going to help me out, or are you waiting to watch me flop onto the floor and grab it myself?" They punctuate this by eyeing you over expectantly. Their arms are folded across their chest and, for a brief second, you can see them _as_ the grey-faced... ( _Troll. It suddenly dawns upon you that they're called trolls._ ) "How about we stop asking nicely? I'm in enough goddamned pain as it is, and I'm _not_ going to haul my ass onto the floor if you can just lean over and pick it up. So, long story short, if I have to do it myself, I _will_ beat the living shit out of you. I might not look like much, but I can punch you so hard your teeth end up in tomorrow's load of bodily wastes."

The latter commentary snaps you back to reality. You offer an apologetic huff, grab the sphere, and hand it over. "Do you even know how to _make_ an eye?" you ask. It's as much a genuine question as it is a half-assed attempt to dispel the weight of your most recent blunder.

Again, you're surprised by their reaction. They offer a brief hint of a wry smile, though it's gone before they start speaking. Once again, their face has what seems to be a default expression akin to a scowl. "I'm an art whore. My dad started me on it, and my mom taught me how to make prosthetics. They're about as functional as shoving gum into the crack in a ruined wall, but people seem to like them better than nothing."

"Neat." This reply is half true. It fascinates you that Karuna apparently knows how to do such things. Then again, you don't _really_ care all that much.

"So, what? Was all of this some huge fucking distraction? Are you going to actually fix the script?" They ask these things one after the other, never pausing in between to give you time to respond.

( _You'd genuinely forgotten about that._ )

Despite the gap between your initial complaint and this new inquiry, your solution is still in your mind. And, considering how much they've been talking lately, you have a feeling you might be able to convince them to go along with it. "Well, first of all, it comes across as, 'Hello, young people! I am a clueless old fart with no idea what the kids like these days.' Secondly, it's boring to leave it all up to one person."

"Then fucking improv," declares Karuna, waving their hand dismissively, "And I'll get John." With this said, they return to shaping the eye.

You, however, push the issue. "I think you'd be better. We already hate each other. At least, that's the vibe I'm getting..."

"I'd rather be abducted by a radiation-enlarged eagle, dropped into a nest the size of a fucking SUV, and be slowly pecked to death by ravenous eaglets," they huff.

"Tension is good on the air," you keep pushing. You're not all that invested in defeating the Condesce. John is, though, and you'd never let yourself live it down if you didn't do your job right. "Banter draws crowds. I used to do a morning talk segment with Rose, and it was one of the most popular things on the air back then."

And, in return, you see a side of Karuna you haven't seen before. It's more hesitant. Less confident. "No, really, I'm not all that great at doing that sort of shit. Besides, people _know_ you. For some fucking reason, your face is plastered everywhere on an all-too-often basis. No one knows who the hell I am. 'Hello, my name is Karuna Vajpai' doesn't exactly have the same ring to it as, 'What's up, wasteland prowlers? It's DJ Stride!'" Here, they freeze. Bowing their head, they begin working on their sculpting with even more vigor and forced concentration than before.

You, however, won't let it slide so easily. "So, you listen to my show? I should have fucking figured. Everyone loves me."

"Don't get too cocky. But, yeah, I tuned in from time to time. It's better than Condesce propaganda." Looking at them now, you can almost see them as cute. Attractive, even. Their eyes draw your attention immediately, no questions asked. They're a sort of strangely dull grey, which looks like unpolished metal, yet a healthy spattering of shining metallic specks stand against this background like stars. ( _No. Shit. This is not what you're here for. Snap out of it, Strider._ )

"Well," you say, forcing yourself to stare at a small scar across the bridge oh their nose, "You know the format. I'll say some shit, then you can counter. I'd let you act like you taught me something on air, too, if you want. But I'd rather not do that too often. Can't tarnish the image too much."

"Fine. Just this once, I'll play along with your shitty game." With a complete lack of any sort of enthusiasm, and an attitude bordering on hostile, they wheel forwards. Since there's a wall to the right side of the desk, they park themselves to the left. They lean over and flip some sort of lock on either side of the chair. Each is positioned just behind and almost flush with their knees. Having done this, they look at you with an expression you'd classify as one of blasé annoyance.

 **[ON AIR]**

 **"Companions in an empty room, I taste their victory and sin."**  
Paul Williams, "Phantom's Theme (Beauty and the Beast)," _Phantom of the Paradise_ (1974)

The papers in your hands rustle. They clap against the metal desk with an oddly hollow resonance, like bells being rung while dampened or covered. It's an odd sound, and it echoes in your head. As cocky as you often act, you've never been the most confident person. Even after all this time-after all this fame and attention-the minutes before a broadcast begins are stressfull.

A deep breath in. A long, steady breath out. Then, you flip the necessary switch.

With a low, warbling buzz, the beaten-up "On Air" sign at the corner of the desk lights up.

 **DAVE: Good morning, wasteland, and welcome back to another installment of** _ **ECRN. East Coast Resistance News**_ **brings you all the latest information that you need to help fight the Condesce. I'm your host, the one and only DJ Stride, and we're joined by a pretty rad guest today. And that guest is-**

Karuna presses the button to mute the microphone. They lean over the side of their chair, towards you, and level you the most terrifying glare you've ever seen. "You can't just broadcast my actual name, you fucking dingus. That's like walking up and down the street, ringing doorbells, and handing out little pins that say, 'Shoot me! I hate the all-powerful Condesce!'"

"You need a radio name, then. Something catchy. Something cool," you shrug. You should have thought about this before you started broadcasting. But, nothing can be done about it now. You mull over the possibilities, then go with your gut. After undoing what Karuna has done, you continue.

 **DAVE: Karkat, tell me what's going down with the resistance right now.**

"Worst code name ever," Karuna mutters this in your ear in a hushed, but still very angry voice. Nonetheless, they continue.

 **KARUNA: You don't fucking know? Great goddamned job you're doing as a newscaster.**

 **DAVE: It's not my job. I'm just here to announce things. Think about it like before they carpet bombed the fuck out of everyone. The Old World had those excitable sports fuckers. "Hello, football fans, we're here to tell you that there is a ball. It is being passed around to many people through a variety of different means."**

 **KARUNA: Whatever.**

There's something oddly natural about this bantering. It's as if you're talking to Rose or John. There's a certain inexplicable familiarity and, more interestingly, there's a definite ease to it. While you've never once had a simple conversation with them until now, this feels like something you've done every day for years.

 **KARUNA: How much am I allowed to say on the air?**

 **DAVE: You can say whatever the fuck you want. The government agency to monitor how family-friendly this shit is is long gone. Let loose and fly off the fucking handle.**

 **KARUNA: In that case, the Condesce can go slurp ash-flavored waste water from their burning, nonfunctional piss-poor excuse for an munitions supply factory.**

 **DAVE: Really? Sounds fascinating as fuck.**

 **KARUNA: It is. We shut down one of the fifty Kentucky plants a few days ago. Top secret shit, though. I can't just spew it over the air. That'd be an absolute shit move.**

 **DAVE: It'd hold level with the Condesce's level of common sense, though.**

 **KARUNA: How are you a radio broadcaster? You have the personality of an infected pimple.**

 **DAVE: You're obviously missing a lot by not joining the CRM.**

 **KARUNA: Really, though, you are.**

 **DAVE: New recruits are accepted regardless of age, gender, ability, or species.**

 **KARUNA: We don't accept regardless of species, you shit-fondling jackass. Do you shit from your mouth, because that's what comes out of it?**

 **DAVE: Oh ho. What a** _ **bad**_ **burn. I will need some ice for this grievous infraction against my personal character. What ever shall I do? Seriously, though, are you telling me you wouldn't accept a puppy?**

 **KARUNA: I stand fucking corrected. We now accept regardless of species.**

 **DAVE: Join today at your local CRM headquarters. Ask around. You'll find us.**

There's a quiet click. The light on the "On Air" sign goes out.

You take a deep breath in, and let a long sigh out.

The second broadcast is finished.


	5. Asian Dream Song

**AUTHOR NOTES: Song by Joe Hisaishi.**

* * *

 **Sfv, tallwj sfymakz, lzwkw log jgsvk owjw ugfljsvaulgjq.**

You've been given your first "real" mission for the resistance effort, and it's to go above-ground to collect scrap wood. Of course, it's not a solo fend-for-yourself-with-your-own-bare-hands sort of deal, you've been provided with the necessary materials to venture into the bombed-out wasteland of America's former capital city: a simple pistol, about fifty bullets, a bag to carry what you salvage, and a simple handheld transceiver. You're to be accompanied by Rose's girlfriend, Kandice. Rose volunteered to join, but was ultimately refused on the grounds of needing more hands below the surface to help with daily maintenance.

One of the elevators in the subway's main station still works, and you've followed Karuna up, to the entrance. Doing so required the entry of some sort of code to a hacked-together keypad, and you assume that they know the combination. After all, it would be a rather stupid move to just have an unlocked entrance. "I'll be joining you, by the way," they grumble, shouldering a rifle you'd assumed to be intended for Kandice. "It's your first return to the Capitol waste, and I can't afford for you to run."

You nod. There's no point in debating this, seeing as they'll come along regardless. There's no point in responding, because they'll certainly come back with some sort of snide comment. "Keep your mouth shut and your hands on your weapon," that's a lesson you learned early.

"Strider," demands Karuna, waiting until you've nodded to continue, "You understand how to handle yourself out here, right?" As they speak, two of the other CRM members-people you've yet to acquaint yourself with-begin to unlock a solid ( _yet obviously cobbled together_ ) vault-style door. After a solid five minutes of painful silence, the three of you step outside, into the Capitol wastes.

The air is dry and cold. It smells of old, decaying materials of all sorts. It only takes you about two steps to stumble across a human skull. The rest of it is missing. However, you've seen enough of this to disregard it. With the weight of the pistol in your hand acting as an anchor to reality, you follow the pair out, onto the main street.

The station leads to an intersection. It's easy to imagine that, once, the lanes were filled with traffic. The streets probably bustled with people all day and night. Now, it's empty. Only a few stray looters remain, but you ( _fortunately_ ) don't see any of them.

"The old Verizon Center is probably a good place to start," Kandice offers, toying with the shoulder strap on her rifle. It doesn't escape your attentions that she's got her own weapon, though. A formidable knife is strapped to the belt, which crosses diagonally across her torso. "I'd recommend the shops on the outside, though. While we haven't heard much of the looting gang living inside the stadium lately, I wouldn't be confident in saying that they've been dissolved."

"Agreed." Karuna grunts this swift response and uses an odd array of leather straps and belt to secure his own gun to a holster next to his right knee, on the bent rod connecting the chair's footrest to the point at which the wheel's central axel connects. From what you can tell, it's a standard revolver.

The three of you continue north, eventually coming across the remnants of a Dunkin Donuts. The windows have been shattered, and many of the furnishings vandalized or smashed to mostly useless bits.

Prior to continuing, Karuna slips on a pair of thick gloves to protect their hands. "Doesn't look too different from the last time we had to come out here," they mutter.

Kandice seems to agree. "I have a hunch that the Capitol Crawlers have taken a good, long hike. Condesce sentries have probably done a good amount of cleaning up for us." She's the first to enter the building. She's ready to react to any threat, but her rifle isn't raised. Immediately after entering, she kicks the leg of a decrepit table. The weather-worn materials splinters, letting forth a fine _crack_. "We've got a little bit here."

"And I fucking suppose you want me to hold it?" Karuna counters. If they were to say this to you, you'd take it as an insult or sarcastic jab. When they speak to Kandice, however, there's a fondness to their voice. ( _It's something that's inconsequential and trivial yet, for some reason, you feel as if that familiarity and care should be in their voice when they speak to you, too._ )

"I can only assume that this is what the large bag conveniently attached to the back of your chair is for," Kandice replies without any hesitation. A small, sly grun spreads across her face. As Karuna backs their chair up, making it so that she can easily toss in the debris, she continues, "Really, Una, you set yourself up to be the pack animal. Maybe, if you stopped using that bag and _offering_ to help carry things, we'd be less inclined to pile large amounts of weight onto your person."

You barely stifle a snicker. After taking off your backpack and setting it aside, you, too, begin aiding in the fragmentation of the table. It's not as if you can just throw the entire thing in a bag and run. Out of the corner of your good eye, you can see that Karuna light a hand-rolled cigarette. After a long, deep drag inwards, they exhale a plume of smoke directly into your face.

( _Somehow, you find yourself back in Bro's apartment. He towers above you, sword in hand. "Quit whining and get up," he commands, grabbing you by the back of your shirt. He lifts you into the air and blows into your face the cigarette smoke he's been letting circulate in his mouth. He knees you in the gut, mutters some sort of insult, and casts you aside._ )

"Strider?" You're drawn back to reality by Karuna's voice. Unlike usual, it's soft. There's genuine concern behind his words. "Strider, you okay?"

"Huh?"

By now, Kandice also seems to have taken interest in the situation. She, however, remains less active than Karuna. You get the feeling, however, that she'd be the one helping if it had just been the two of you.

"You zoned out on me," Karuna explains, eyeing you over worriedly. "Don't let your brain turn to fucking mush on me. We've got enough problems as it is."

"Yeah," you lie, "I'm fine."

They nod, but it seems they don't believe you. They don't press the issue, though, and you're grateful for that much of a break.

Kandice, meanwhile, finishes breaking up the table. She dusts off her hands and stands, looking at the relatively little wood collected. It goes without saying that further searching needs to be done.

 **Ywfldwewf gx lzw zmesf jsuw, A ksq lg zwdd oalz lzw dgl gx qgm.**

Five hours.

You keep at this for _at least_ five hours. By now, it's grown warmer, but it's still not comfortably warm. There's still a slight bite to the wind. You miss the comfortable tedium of your old life, but you're starting to appreciate the more social nature of your new life. At the very least, you've learned that Kandice can take snark and throw it right back with twice as much force. ( _You suppose this is why she and Rose get along so well._ )

By now, you've filled Karuna's bag.

You and Kandice have been trying to fill each of yours, as well.

Now, you find yourself in the open-air atrium of an old art museum. The paintings have long since been looted, and the space you're in is at the heart of the structure. You can only assume that this must have been a dining area, as a fancy bistro is what led to this place. Trees line the center of the space, and they're still alive. This is the first thing everyone noticed upon entering.

"I didn't even know there were still live trees within who-knows-how-many fucking miles of the Capitol wastes," Karuna mutters, studying one of the spry examples of nature's resilience. They run their fingers along the bark.

"It's amazing to find that these haven't been cut down," Kandice comments, speaking for everyone. "Rarely does such organic life survive after the type of abuse this city failed to endure."

"You can think about the philosofuck behind it all later," Karuna interjects. It seems that the novelty has worn off. "We need to get back as soon as possible." They groan, massage their temples with their thumbs, and squeeze their eyes shut, "I think there might be a problem."

"Like what?" you ask, expecting to hear some sort of strange answer. ( _Maybe Karuna's gotten a radio transmission from the base. There's a haunted metro train or something._ )

Instead of some sort of half-assed, sarcastic reply, however, you're met with an upfront answer. "I'll slide the scaler down on the big, precise words so that even you can understand, you bumbling fuck. Sometimes, for no reason at all, my brain decides to say, 'Fuck you, buddy,' and drown itself in fluid. I'm supposed to have something to drain it, but I think there's something wrong with it."

Kandice, who had been carefully removing some of the extra limbs from one of the trees and throwing them into her bag, freezes. "Shit." ( _This is the first time you've heard her cuss, outside of that one time she tried to emulate Karuna's speech._ ) "We've got to go."

"Yeah, you sure do, filthy fucking thieves!" The voices, naturally, draw attention. As it is, they seem to come from a figure in standard above-ground attire. A ratty hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and a cloth to hide all but their eyes. In their hands is a gun, and it's leveled at Karuna.

As if on cue, there are two distinct clicks. A quick glance reveals that two other similarly dressed individuals have appeared in the shattered windows. Guns are now leveled at all three of you.

The ringleader, however, is the only one to speak. Their gun remains aimed at Karuna. "These are our trees, and we'd like for them to stay that way. We'd also appreciate it if no one else knew these were here, so we might as well kill you."

"Really?" Despite the fact that they're starting to garner an aura of confused dissociation, they respond with unprecedented confidence. "You're going to shoot us over some fucking trees?"

"Yeah!" declares the ringleader. "It's a free wasteland. I can do what I goddamned please."

"Duck." Kandice's voice comes from behind you. It's soft, quiet, and commanding.

You want to ask why she's demanding that you duck, but you refrain from doing so. Instead, you comply.

This gives you just enough time to hear a single gunshot. This is followed by a heavy thud.

When you straighten, you find that Kandice has shot the person whose gun had been aimed at her, and thrown her blade so that it's plunged into the leg of the person whose gun was aimed at you.

The ringleader fumbles with their gun. ( _Not as tough as they act, it seems._ )

This give Karuna just enough time to fire their own shot. It's sloppy, rushed, and less precise than Kandice's. However, from what you know, the fact that he hit the bastard is its own feat.

With your attackers down, the three of you gather your things and get the hell out of there.

When you're threatened with a bullet to head, you're not exactly keen on staying anywhere nearby.

By the time you've returned, Karuna seems to have returned to normal. Nonetheless, they agree to undergo what they describe (to you) as a "fucking basic, run-of-the-mill, simpler-than-even-you" operation. They caution that you keep this information to yourself.

"No one else needs to or will know about this. Got it, Strider?" they hissed. "No one. Not a single fucking person. Not even the voice in your head that I am most certain yells at you for being an absolute dick most of the time."

You had no real reason to contest or disobey this order.

Nonetheless, as you lay in your bed and prepare to go to sleep, you can't help but feel concerned for them. It's an odd feeling, too. You don't exactly like them. There's no comradery or friendship between the two of you. There are definitely no warm feelings. Why, then, do you care?


	6. Cardinal Knowledge

**AUTHOR NOTE: The song is by Bruno Coulais.**

* * *

 **Vjg hwvwtg jcu ugxgtcn pcogu.**

You're literally knee-deep in stinking, filthy water. You hold a waterpoof flashlight in one hand, and a long metal rod in the other. The items in the back on your back rattle and clang with every step and every breath. Then again, the setting makes you not want to breathe all that much; every inhale is another moment you have to bear the stench.

"What the fuck are we supposed to be doing, anyhow? I feel like we're spear-hunting for deformed fish," you grunt, gagging as your foot slips on something hidden beneath the murky water's brown surface.

Rose shrugs. She's ahead of you, but she's certainly not more enthusiastic about this. In fact, for once, the two of you agree on something. "This isn't the most desirable of all the daily maintenance tasks, but someone has to do it. Rotating the schedule allows for everyone to suffer equally." Sloshing. Rose's metal poker rises, a dead frog speared upon its tip. She's unfazed. She slides it off with her bare hands, then continues to jab periodically into the knee-deep slop.

You, however, feel a pang of sadness. You hope the frog didn't suffer much. At the very least, you hope Rose didn't just kill it herself. ( _You've always been a bit of a sucker for animals and cute amphibian and reptiles and birds._ ) "What's the point of this? Is it just to torture us?"

"No," Rose laughs. "We're here to make sure there's nothing we're unaware of within the nearby area. From time to time, we'll get wanderers and scavengers in the tunnels. We either assimilate them or confront them. The former happens more often." A dull thud. When she raises her stick, the end is lodged deep into the surface of a thoroughly ruined book. _Colonel Sassacre's Gigantic Book of Hilarious Puns_ is emblazoned upon the title, but that's all you can make out. She discards the book, and it throws up droplets of water before sinking. "Sometimes, we find some interesting things."

"I doubt it," you grumble. You spear something soft and squishy. Unlike Rose, you're not too keen on knowing what it is. You put your foot down on it, pull the rod free, and continue. "What sort of shit would be down here that _isn't_ soaked to hell?"

"We've found unharmed records and files," Rose volunteers, never looking back at you as she speaks. ( _She's always been better than you at focusing on the task at hand._ ) "Kandice said Una had a bit of a problem during the excursion yesterday. He's doing well this morning, though. At least, that's what she told me."

"You're not supposed to know that," you mutter, thinking back to what Karuna had said earlier, just before he'd disappeared into his room.

"I'm well aware," Rose nods. "I thought you'd want to know."

"Why would I care?"

"No reason. I just wanted to let you know." After a moment of silence, Rose stops. She turns around and points the rod in the direction the two of you had come from. "We've gone far enough today. Let's start heading back. Kandice will be waiting, as she always is, with fresh clothes and a warm fire."

"Thank God," you hiss, "This is fucking disgusting. I've heard that dung beetles live in more sanitary environments, and they eat literal shit."

 **Pqv uggkpi rgqrng rgtokvu wu vq kocikpg vjgo ykvj gxgta rgthgevkqp.**

You stare down, into the boiling pot of water, with only the vaguest sense of true interest. You've been helping John make some semblance of a meal for the past hour or so, and it's only now starting to come together. It's fascinating, but it's not _that_ fascinating. "The food down here is much better than the food above-ground. I was getting sick of eating mutant cockroach meat."

In response, John laughs. As usual, the sound burns at your gut. It tugs at your heartstrings and makes you feel, for the briefest moment, as if you're floating. "It is," he agrees. "It's not always this good, but we've had some shipments in from the West Coast."

"There's a West Coast version of this place?" you ask, your curiosities piqued.

"Yeah! Duh." John rolls his eyes. He looks at you as if you should have known this. "West Coast Condesce Resistance Movement. Same sort of layout, but underneath Old LA. The WCRUT-1. It's run by one of Una's old former friends, Solomon. I've met him a few times. Kind of a weird dude."

"Former?" you inquire further, stirring the boiling mixture slowly, as instructed.

"Some sort of minor scrap happened between them. Probably a bunch of weird bullshit shenanigans. No big deal. They still work together really well."

"Hm." You nod slowly.

At this point, you're not sure you want to know much more about the situation. You've never been one to keep a lot of drama straight in your mind, so you generally avoid it. Instead, you continue to focus on stirring the boiling water. You're unsure of what you're doing this for, but you were told to.

"Egbert!" A familiar voice breaks the placid surface of your thoughts, throwing up ripples of shock.

The door is thrown open.

Karuna enters, a bandage still secured on their scalp, just behind their right ear. "You're the last ones to fucking show up. Emergency meeting in the commons." The door slides shut.

You and John exchange glances. "It can't be anything bad, can it?" you ask, tacking on a nervous smile.

John, however, looks serious. This is something completely out of character for him, and it bothers you deeply. While he doesn't say anything in reply, you can tell that there's little chance that this is something mundane. Even as you follow him down the main tunnel, he remains silent.

It's unnerving.

And, when you enter the main station, that unease only grows. You and John both slip into the last two available folding chairs.

Karuna, from the front, then delivers the news. It's blunt, upfront, and without feeling. "There've been some... Rumors... That the location of our base has been discovered, and I am here to confirm that these are true. A tunneling machine has been spotted, and its working it way through the debris from older complexes. We have about a year before it reaches us, and we have two options." They clear their throat and eye the notecard in their hand. "We can retreat, or fight. The decision shall be announced as soon as it is made. Thank you for coming, and you can now leave. Dismissed."

The crowd disperses in silence, and you're unsure of what the general consensus is.

But, you know it's not good.


End file.
